Page 12 of Evil Bones
All missing at least one body part.
I was viewing a close-up of the base of a rabbit cranium when I heard the door open. Curious, I turned.
Officially, Erskine “Skinny” Slidell is no longer a cop. But Skinny spent decades with the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD Felony Investigative Bureau/Homicide Unit, and leaving the “murder table” wasn’t easy for him.
Apparently, the parting of ways wasn’t easy for the CMPD, either. Skinny is often called out of retirement to lend a hand with his extensive, though not always orthodox, investigative skills.
I’ve worked with Slidell over the years. Frequently. My take? The guy’s got the personality of moldy gouda, but good instincts.
Slidell was standing at the open door, one hand on the knob, as though prepared should a quick getaway prove necessary. His cheeks were flushed, his Brylcreemed hair damp at his forehead and temples and separated into oily clumps on his scalp. Having experimented with a crew cut for a while, Skinny had gone back to his signature pompadour-ducktail arrangement of late. It wasn’t a good look.
Slidell hates hot weather. Almost as much as he hates autopsies and the rooms in which the cutting takes place. His overheated face radiated displeasure at having to cross from the administrative and office area to the scientific working area of the MCME. From the facility’s “clean” to “dirty” side.
“Doc.” Slidell greeted me in his usual indolent way.
“Detective.”
“I hear you collected another one of these critters.”
“I did.”
“All decked out like the others?”
“Yes.” Thinking the same could be said about Skinny. Today he was wearing a tan-and-yellow plaid jacket over a mint green shirt with blue top stitching. Polyester black pants.
“We got us one weird sonofabitch out there.” Delivered without venturing across the threshold.
“We do.”
“What the hell is his thinking?”
“Or her.”
Slidell made a noise in his throat to acknowledge the point.
A moment of silence, then,
“I read an article about Mexicans decorating dead human heads.”
“Calaveras,” I said, hiding my surprise. Not at the fact that Skinny knew about “sugar skulls” as they’re also called. At the fact that he read.
“Yeah.” Jabbing the air with the index finger of his free hand. “Those.”
“Skulls were a prominent feature in pre-Columbian societies and cultures,” I said, wanting to encourage Skinny in his literary pursuits. “And calaveras—crania decorated to reflect the beauty of life—are still created for the annual Day of the Dead celebrations in November.”
Skinny looked unimpressed with this ethnographic morsel dredged up from my grad school days.
“But this is different,” I added, gesturing toward MCME-701-25.
“Different how?”
“The skulls being nailed up are forest creatures or stolen pets.”
“They’re from animals.”
Duh. I didn’t say it. Didn’t matter. Skinny was lost in thought and had tuned me out.
I resumed studying my screen.
